Chapter Text
John finds himself giving thanks at least once a day that his flatmate is a detective rather than a criminal. Today's moment of thanks is inspired by Sherlock's frighteningly deft lockpicking skills. The door to the vacant flat swings open in a matter of seconds; Sherlock presses an object into John's hands and steps inside, switching on his torch.
It’s some sort of specialized half-mask, thin and light; it looks like one John has worn in surgery, but with a few modifications. Sherlock is putting on his own as John quietly shuts the door behind them.
If the odour was strong in Helen Stoner's flat, it's nothing compared to the reek that assaults John's senses in here. The mask likely offers some protection against poisonous fumes, but clearly it can't do much against the odour, which is so brutal that John's eyes sting with each intake of breath. John pulls out his own torch and lights it, sweeping the room.The flat is unfurnished; half-open paint cans litter the floor, which is covered with drop cloths. The sitting room floor plan appears to be a mirror image of the flat next door.
Sherlock sets his torch on the floor; it casts shadows over the half-painted walls, glossy new patches reflecting next to dull stripes of older paint. He snaps on a pair of rubber gloves, holds out his hand. "Camera," he says, muffled under the mask.
"Jesus," John says, breath damp on his face against the closeness of the mask. "What the hell is going on in here?"
He passes the camera to Sherlock, who says nothing, stooping to peer at the vents on the wall shared by Helen's flat. The smell is nearly making John gag. "Whatever you're doing, let's make it quick, Sherlock."
"Quiet." Sherlock takes a photo, straightens, begins inspecting the walls. He runs a finger over the paint, examines it. "This isn't what I expected."
"It’s not?"
"Don't talk." Sherlock's hands skim the walls like large, pale spiders. "Save your breath."
John is realizing that the only good thing about the overwhelming smell is that it has driven all distracting Sherlock-related thoughts from his mind. He can think only of the suffocating weight of paint thinner, and of some sickly, manufactured scent beneath it --
"Air freshener," Sherlock says, pointing. There's an innocuous plug-in air freshener in one of the outlets in the corner, a common grocery store brand. Strangely, there's a second one plugged in below it, upside-down. Two on a single outlet.
John spots two more fresheners in the kitchenette, plugged in high on the wall by the counter. He turns to point them out but Sherlock is already out of sight in the toilet.
"Four in here," Sherlock calls. "Bag, please."
John fishes in his pocket, walks over to shine his torch at the outlet where Sherlock is impatiently holding out a hand. He hands Sherlock a plastic evidence bag. "Are you taking one?"
Sherlock nods. He wrests one of the fresheners from the outlet and seals it into the bag, then pockets it. They sweep through the rest of the flat without speaking, outlet by outlet, John trailing behind him with the torch. All told, there are twelve plug-in fresheners installed in the tiny flat. It is one of the more bizarre scenes John has encountered in recent memory.
Despite the mask John is starting to feel vaguely ill. At Sherlock’s wordless gesture, John hands him another bag; Sherlock takes a short wooden dowel from one of the paint cans and lifts it, dripping, inside. He spends another minute studying the drop cloths, running the edge of one of them between his gloved fingers, leaning in to inhale. Then, straightening abruptly, he inclines his head toward the door. “Out. Now.”
~ ~ ~
John is nearly gasping for the sweetly rancid air in Helen Stoner’s flat as he pulls off the mask and slumps onto her dingy grey couch. Sherlock is locking the door behind them, pulling off his own mask. Underneath his expression is angry, pinched.
“I’ve missed something. Something obvious. Not possible.”
A persistent throb is now beating beneath John’s temples. He rubs his forehead, watches Sherlock peel off his gloves, starting to pace a swift, fluid rhythm. Energy like a spreading fire, edges crackling with light.
“Talk us through it, then.”
“Mmm?”
Sherlock isn’t listening. He looks infuriatingly lovely in the deep blue shadows of the flat, lit only by the glow of streetlamps outside and the pale light from the terrarium. He’s always loveliest like this, thoughts igniting, ready for takeoff. John has always known this, subconsciously perhaps, but it’s entirely different to watch Sherlock today, with the ghost of Sherlock’s long, hard erection still lingering at the forefront of his thoughts.
“Go on, Sherlock. Let’s hear it.”
“Tell me what you observed.”
“Seriously?”
“Do you think I bring you with me just to hold the bloody camera?”
John pauses. The thought crosses his mind on a regular basis.
Sherlock reads his expression. “John.”
“This is pointless.”
This earns John a sharp look. An inescapable wordless command. John’s head hurts; he doesn’t feel like resisting.
“All right, the flat reeked. It was being painted. Someone went to a lot of trouble to install a ridiculous number of air fresheners. So either they completely lack a sense of smell, or they’re lifelong members of the Scent of the Month Club.”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks upward. “Not sure about that last point, but good so far.”
“Weird, though,” John says, after a moment. “It didn’t look like anyone had been in to paint today.”
“Very good.” Sherlock’s tone is warm, approving. “You’re quite right. No one has been in that flat for four or five days, in fact. Do you see?”
“The vents, the air fresheners, the paint. A setup.”
“It has to be. There’s no other option. A man owns a building, switches the air vents, paints a room, the woman living in the flat next door dies shortly before her twenty-fifth birthday. Her twenty-fifth birthday is particularly significant. Why? Twenty-five is a common transition age for inheritance. A trust fund most likely about to be transferred to her control. With the Stoner mother dead some years ago it stands to reason that Roy Grimsby has plenty of motive to keep his hands on her daughters’ money. Add the fact that both sisters had a taste for expensive drugs and I’m sure Grimsby was doubly motivated. Once it occurred to him that he could plausibly use an overdose to cover up a killing I’m sure he wasted no time in setting a plan in motion. Julia Stoner’s death was murder. And Dr. Grimsby is about to pull it off a second time.”
Sherlock is pacing anew. “In the vacant flat, tonight. Oil-based paint, far more fragrant than latex. Nearly twice as many cans open as would be needed to paint a room that size. Paint job is haphazard, incomplete, and based on the good condition of the older paint, not really necessary. Add to that, someone spilled paint thinner on the dropcloth, soaked it quite thoroughly a few days ago. I knew I would find something like this before I even entered the vacant flat. It’s quite easy to detect the distinct smells of paint and thinner from this flat. It was the other smell I needed to identify. My belief was that the paint smell was there for one purpose: to mask that unknown fragrance.”
“So there’s something in the air fresheners.”
Sherlock nods. “Or the paint.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “But I was sure there would be something else in that flat. There wasn’t.”
“Why?” John sits up, leans forward. Sherlock’s eyes lock with his, their familiar connection crackling with energy. John’s pulse skips; he can’t look away. They’ve always had this intensity, but now it’s bleeding into something else in John’s mind, a feverish need to reach out and touch. To feel their connection under his fingers.
“There’s no way to control the dosage. I was expecting a timer, a system, maybe something computerized that could deliver a dose of aerosol through the vents. It would be difficult to monitor the circumstances of death otherwise, to ensure that the intended victim would get the correct amount of gas when she was home in the flat. Julia Stoner’s death was highly controlled.”
“But there was nothing.” John’s mind is a blur of Sherlock, of pale eyes, slim shoulders, cool skin, and there should probably be something in there about poison gas, but it’s dissipating under Sherlock’s stare.
“You didn’t see anything.”
“I... yes. What? No.”
“Pay attention!” Sherlock’s fist comes down hard on Helen Stoner’s coffee table. John, shocked, flinches hard in his seat. “You’ve got to ignore it right now, John, I know damn well what you’re thinking about, I need you to ignore it.”
John stares, wide-eyed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about --”
“For God’s sake.” Sherlock’s eyes glitter in the dim light. “The case. Don’t watch me. Think about the case.”
Any tenuous control John had on his emotions comes undone. He stands up. “I’m done here. You can order me around all you want, but you can’t bloody well tell me what to think, Sherlock. Do you think I can help it? I’ve been trying to ignore it all day but I’m a human being, and if you can’t face up to that --”
“You think I’m not human?” Sherlock’s voice is a low growl. He takes a step closer to John, and there’s something broken in his eyes, something startling. “I’m too human, John. I’m missing something obvious on this case and I shouldn’t be, I’m distracted.”
“And that’s my fault.” John gives an incredulous laugh.
Sherlock says nothing; they look at each other for a long minute, John’s heart pounding. He realizes his head is nearly pounding to match.
“I can’t do this right now, Sherlock.” John steps away. They’ve nearly fallen into articulating something that’s frankly too big and terrifying for John to process. He should have gotten out, should have taken a cab home earlier, they would have had time to forget what happened, go back to business as usual -- “I’m going home. I’ve got a bloody awful headache.”
Sherlock blinks. “You’ve got... a headache,” he says quietly.
“Yeah, the smell in here, I dunno how you can take it. It’s making me ill, honestly.”
Sherlock’s eyes have gone very, very wide; his mouth is an almost comically perfect O.
“A headache. John, that’s it. That’s it, John, you’re a genius.”
John blinks at Sherlock, at his infuriating, lovely, victorious expression.
“There’s nothing in the paint.” Sherlock is in motion. “There’s nothing in the air freshener either, it’s brilliant. We’ll test them and find nothing. Nothing, because all you need... all you need to trigger a headache is the smell.”
“Migraines.” John’s brain is clicking slowly back into gear. “The migraines. Both sisters had them. Migraines can be triggered by weather, or bright light, or certain foods, or intense odours. Helen Stoner has a prescription --”
“John,” Sherlock breathes. “Helen Stoner had pills. What if --”
For once, John is matching Sherlock thought for thought; this is medicine. “Sherlock. They found a syringe with Julia Stoner’s body; she had a fresh needle mark. If pills aren’t effective, migraine medication can be prescribed in injectable form.”
“Trigger a series of migraines,” Sherlock continues, and he’s nearly giddy, grinning. “Trigger enough of them and their dear doctor will prescribe an injection. Especially if their usual pills aren’t working, especially if he’s tampered with them, maybe they’re sugar pills, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. If you’re the prescribing doctor it would be terribly easy to bring home placebo medication. And when the pills don’t work, he can bring home a tampered syringe with a very official label.” He steps forward, grasps John by the shoulders. “A tampered syringe with a lethal dose of heroin. Cause of death, heroin overdose. John, I could kiss you.”
Sherlock is still gripping his shoulders, and for one astounding moment he looks as gobsmacked as John feels. It's as if time has stopped, leaving a warped bubble of space around the two of them while the rest of the world tilts oddly on its axis.
"I could kiss you," Sherlock murmurs, more to himself than to John.
"Okay," John says.
The word floats into the bubble and seems to hang there.
Sherlock blinks, eyes bright and sharp. John has shocked him. Or perhaps Sherlock has shocked himself.
And then Sherlock slides a tentative hand to the back of John's neck, leans in, and presses a gentle kiss to John's lips.
This is Sherlock, bending John's world again, except this time it's not just through a secret door or a hidden message. It's all of John, his senses engulfed, refracted like light through a prism. This is the two of them -- it's always been the two of them, entirely new and totally familiar all at once. Sherlock is so bloody good at seeing things that John doesn't notice, things that are hiding in plain sight. Things like... this.
And John, as always, is right there with him.
John forgets to move, nearly forgets to breathe, lets the world tilt, everything's changing; but then, just as suddenly, he's fine. He's better than fine, he's outstanding, his best mate is kissing him and it's all John ever wanted. Because if there's anything John Watson excels at, it's the art of adapting on the fly. Rolling with a world that spins on a sixpence when Sherlock Holmes is involved. You were right, Sherlock. You were right.
John reaches for Sherlock, cups a hand over one ridiculous cheekbone, and kisses back, and this kiss is all John. It's honest and genuine and not at all hesitant: Yes, we should, we're bloody well doing this. He feels Sherlock smile into the kiss, feels Sherlock's deep chuckle between them, and John is smiling too, wondering why he was so terrified when this seems so logical, so brilliant, so right.
And now that it's started it seems they can't stop, there's so much to say, so much John has wanted to tell Sherlock with his hands and his lips that he could never say before. Sherlock's kisses are careful and soft and wondering, and John's are deeper, certain, and John's sureness smudges into Sherlock's careful touches and now they're both absolutely, completely sure of this. Caution to the wind. Caution out the window and into the clouds like a fucking kite.
It only takes a moment and everything shifts, Sherlock suddenly his cocky, assured self, and he growls into their kiss, grips John firmly by the biceps. In the space of a breath he's propelling John backwards, one, two, three steps and wham. John's head hits the wall of Helen Stoner's flat and Sherlock is arching up against him, all over him. John's hard as a rock and straining back at Sherlock, pulling at his infuriating lovely tailored shirt and fighting to slide his hands up against the sublime, smooth skin underneath.
John is breathing like he's sprinted across half of London, breaks off, then plunges his mouth against Sherlock's again. Sherlock's nimble fingers are working John's shirt free from his trousers and then Christ, one of his smooth hands is sliding up John's torso.
"Sherlock," John gasps, and they are both struggling for purchase against the wall, each fighting to gain access to more flesh and fewer clothes, and it's absolutely imperative that lips must be everywhere if possible. Sherlock's attention fixes on John's shirt buttons and none of it is fast enough, John needs more, needs this brilliant man under his own hands. He grasps Sherlock's shoulders and shoves, roughly; they hit the wall again, John on top this time, bookshelves and tables rattling violently.
Sherlock looks astonished, and to John’s amazement, thoroughly undone, flushed and dark-eyed with desire. John's never seen desire on Sherlock, a blatant tell of emotion clearly visible in his mercurial eyes, and it's a stunning sight. And directed at John? It's utterly overwhelming, and John rocks Sherlock back against the wall again, hard, for a deep, disbelieving kiss. The nearby terrarium rattles, flickers -- did they knock out the power cord? Shit.
"Crikey, let's not kill the snake," John mutters. "Sorry, Spot."
A deep, genuine laugh rumbles in Sherlock's chest, and he pulls back, eyes twinkling. "No need to apologize," he chuckles. "Snakes are deaf, John."
A slow smile spreads over John's face, and then he's laughing helplessly, dropping his head on Sherlock's warm chest, hanging on as they both shake with laughter.
"Sherlock," John gasps, as soon as he's recovered enough air to speak again, "is this -- what are we doing here, exactly?"
"Solving a case," Sherlock murmurs, back still against the wall, his hands now twined around John's waist.
John tilts his head, looks up to meet Sherlock's glinting eyes. "Perfectly sound analysis," he says, his mouth twisting, "But I was hoping you'd go deeper."
This sends them both off on a round of helpless laughter again, Sherlock’s lithe body vibrating against John's; they're tangled together, locked like parts of a whole. It feels completely natural and yet John can't recall a single time they've embraced before. It seems the next logical step, without explanation: I’ve just met you but I’m moving into your flat, of course I’ve just killed a man for you; let’s have dinner. Everything else has been instinctive; why not this?
Why not indeed.
“Your feelings earlier today were quite obvious, despite your commendable efforts to conceal them,” Sherlock says. “But we were working. I prefer not to have distractions when I work.”
“You knew how I felt?”
“Mmm,” Sherlock hums, impish, self-satisfied. “Not the first time I’ve noticed, either. But possibly the first time you have.”
“You noticed my feelings before I did.”
An eyebrow. “You’re surprised?”
John looks up at Sherlock from the circle of Sherlock’s arms. He sighs. “I’m always the last to know, aren’t I.” Sherlock’s still smirking, a cat-swallowed-canary smile. John swallows.“But -- you want -- this?”
“I wasn’t sure, at first,” Sherlock admits, running his hands along John’s sides. John flinches, takes a sharp breath. “I do find you a tremendous distraction. There is the work, of course, but ultimately... best to deal with the inevitable.”
“Seriously?” Inevitable. God. John is boneless against Sherlock’s wandering fingers, which have resumed their exploration of John’s solid torso.
“Quite.” Sherlock’s voice is a low, smoky rumble; he dips his head again, presses a kiss to the edge of John’s neck, where it meets his shoulder.
John groans, writhes against him; fights for breath. “But -- “
“We solved the case,” Sherlock says. “There was only one question left, and it had to be answered.”
John presses a kiss against the corner of Sherlock’s curved lips, the corner with the smile in it. “What was the answer?”
Sherlock merely grins, and he wrests John’s shirt off his shoulders until at last John is bare-chested, breathing hard, a faint sheen of sweat blooming across his skin.
John is still hovering in a haze of disbelief and stunned euphoria. He feels utterly exposed, watching Sherlock’s calculating gaze sweep over his naked chest. Hot color rises in his cheeks, but Sherlock’s eyes gleam with delight.
“We’re really doing this,” John mutters, smiling shyly. “For God’s sake.”
Sherlock is freeing himself of his own shirt, and suddenly he is bare-chested before John, entirely too tall, all glorious creamy skin and smooth, hard muscle. John’s breath hitches and he feels his cock twitch in painful readiness. Christ, Sherlock. “I think you’re going to kill me,” John whispers.
Sherlock’s reaching out greedily, pulling John towards him, and now they’re standing together, hands roaming over bare chests, skin to skin, hearts pounding. “That would be terribly inconvenient,” Sherlock murmurs as John shudders, full-bodied, his hands roaming against the tight planes of Sherlock’s narrow waist.
There is a heavy noise on the stairs.
Sherlock’s motions suddenly cease, hands frozen against John’s lower back.
“Damn.” It’s a hot breath in John’s ear. Sherlock’s eyes are scanning the room; he’s still holding onto John, warm hands burning an imprint. Distinct thud of approaching footsteps. “Someone’s just arrived who may want to try.”
“What?” John’s whisper is broken, urgent. He is suddenly painfully aware of his surroundings, the dim, surreal flat snapping back into focus, heavy curtains, toxic smell. Front door -- unlocked? Most likely. Shit. No gun. No bloody shirt, damn it --
The door explodes open, more cannon than entryway, and the familiar looming mass of Dr. Roy Grimsby is framed in the opening. He flips the light switch, then freezes. John realizes with a detached note of amusement that the sight of a half-naked detective and his partner -- friend? lover? Christ -- is probably not high on the list of what the doctor expected.
Best to roll with the element of surprise.
Sherlock steps away, a hand splayed protectively against the small of John’s back. He nods a greeting, as formally as if all of them had been wearing morning coats and tails. “Good evening, Doctor. We weren’t expecting your company at this late hour.”
“Right,” John echoes, unable to stop touching Sherlock, yet realizing it may be wildly inappropriate to continue. “Lovely weather we’re having this evening, isn’t it?”
John feels Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath and bites his lip. He realizes with panicked amusement that Sherlock is a hair’s breadth away from full-out giggles.
Grimsby is staring at them as if they’re ringmasters of a circus troupe parading around the living room with a display of cheetahs and baboons. Possibly a clown or two. He draws himself up to his full, looming height, eyes wide with incredulity. “I hope you can explain yourselves,” he booms. “Where in blazes is Helen? If she’s hired you to conceal a recent drug binge, Mr. Holmes, you may find yourself well on your way to being booked at Scotland Yard.” He gives Sherlock another sweeping look. “Although you don’t appear to be concealing anything, sir.”
Sherlock throws both hands in the air, steps back in a blink of breathtaking transformation. “It’s no use, John, we’ve got to tell him,” he says, apparently defeated, and John can immediately see that he’s launching into some glorious act. If only John’s brain would start functioning, John could play along, but there’s the issue of the massive blood supply currently being diverted to his cock.
Sherlock’s talking fast, radiating theatrical charm. “Helen’s been so kind, she only wanted to help,” he says woefully, scrambling about as if embarrassed, groping for clothes, his shirt -- his coat. “You see, our landlord, Mr. Stoke -- he’s just discovered that we’re a couple.”
Grimsby, fists clenched, boggles at them.
Sherlock looks fondly at John, and John can’t conceal a smile; Sherlock’s act is entirely an invention, pure crocodile tears, but something unabashedly true gleams in his eyes as they meet John’s. Sherlock begins to button his shirt, still looking at John, who’s trying not to grin stupidly. “Stoke doesn’t exactly want our type in his building.”
“Yes,” says John, cottoning on, starting to gather his own clothes. “For the sake of the children, he says. We’ve had some... threats.” He tries to look outraged; it’s not difficult, imagining the circumstances. Sherlock shoots John a sidelong glance of approval.
Grimsby takes a step into the flat, shuts the door, pops his knuckles.
“Helen’s been so kind, she’s offered to let us stay the night here.” Sherlock is forging onward, shrugging on his coat, and with a near-imperceptible movement, slides one hand into an outer pocket. “You can imagine how frightened we've felt in our own flat, ever since word got out."
Sherlock is now broadcasting mental signals at John in full force, stepping closer into John’s space, and John knows full well how to translate. Get ready -- there will be a distraction. "My dear John,” Sherlock says, wrapping an arm around John's back to squeeze him close. A thrill of sensation shoots through John: the fire of Sherlock’s touch, and the feel of Sherlock pressing the cold metal of John’s Sig against the small of his back, slipping it into place in the waistband of John’s trousers. John tries his very hardest not to crack an ear-splitting grin.
I love you, Sherlock, he thinks. Bloody hell, I do.
“...Dear, dear John, I’m afraid it’s your fault we’re in this mess,” Sherlock is rambling, spectacularly in character. “You see, Mr. Stoke confronted John last week, didn’t he, my love -- and John’s a terrible liar. Let it all slip.” And then Sherlock’s voice sharpens, a dangerous edge. “No poker face at all.”
Poker.
John knows.
At that split-second Sherlock launches himself toward Grimsby; Grimsby is quick, pulls back a massive fist, but Sherlock is faster. In a one-two-three count Sherlock has the enormous doctor pinned to the floor in a near-identical move to the one that pinned John hours beforehand.
But John is ready, Sig comfortably in hand, cocked and aimed precisely at the space between Dr. Grimsby’s bulging eyes.
“Holmes, you meddler,” Grimsby spits, gasping, struggling under Sherlock’s strong frame. “You lunatic, what is the meaning of this --”
“S’all right, Sherlock,” John says coolly. “I’ve got him.”
Sherlock gives a grunt of satisfaction as Grimsby’s eyes track John’s feet, then sweep upward and widen to see John’s gun trained unerringly at his head.
“I’ll call the police,” Grimsby gasps. Beads of sweat have gathered at the temples of his ruddy face. “Breaking and entering. My affairs are no business of yours, Mr. Holmes -- Get your hands off!-- ”
“Call the police, yes, splendid idea,” Sherlock says, and he’s patting Grimsby down, checking jacket pockets until he straightens up with a satisfied hum of triumph.
“Stay where you are, Doctor,” John says calmly, unmoving. Sherlock is on his feet, a paper bag in his hand clearly swiped from Grimsby’s pocket. Grimsby is frozen, realization dawning on his face as Sherlock opens the bag and slides a box out of it, a box with a prescription label wrapped around the outside.
“Injectable sumatriptan,” Grimsby says between gritted teeth, still staring at John’s gun. “Prescription for my step-daughter. She asked me to change her medication -- she gets headaches --”
“How very kind of you.” Sherlock is removing a long syringe from the box, filled with a clear, faintly amber liquid. “I’m sure you won’t mind if Dr. Watson helps her administer the injection when she returns. No need for her to do it herself, he’s an excellent physician. She should be back shortly.”
Grimsby’s red face drains of color apart from the blotchy patches of pink standing out on his cheeks.
“On second thought,” Sherlock continues, flipping the syringe deftly in one hand while sliding the other hand into his coat pocket, “I do know someone who would be remarkably interested in this prescription.”
“Mmm,” John adds, feeling a squirm of pleasure at Grimsby’s misery. “Lestrade was complaining of a headache just yesterday, wasn’t he, Sherlock?”
“He was.” Sherlock grins at John, a delicious lopsided smile, and his eyes skim John’s frame. John remembers belatedly he’s still naked from the waist up. Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s for the barest second and John can see gleeful, predatory lust before Sherlock busies himself with his phone.
“Lestrade,” Sherlock says, eyes straying again to John’s bare chest, “We’ll need a few members of your team, if you don’t mind. Apprehended a suspect. Mmm? Murder, attempted murder. Possession of a class A substance.” He clears his throat, raises an eyebrow in John’s direction. “And home renovations without a proper permit.”
~ ~ ~
A headache-free Helen Stoner is both relieved and shaken to learn that she has narrowly managed to avoid her sister’s fate. She’s visibly touched, lined eyes brimming with tears, when Sherlock offers the services of his homeless network to assist in the immediate removal of air pollutants in the flat next door. Surprisingly, however, she refuses his offer.
“You won’t believe this, but I’ve met someone tonight who’s looking for a flatmate,” she says, hovering on the steps outside as they watch Sergeant Donovan help a stunned Dr. Grimsby into a waiting police car. “At a club, really great music -- I could tell we had the same taste.” She beams. “It was the band!”
“Delightful.” Sherlock is at John’s elbow, looking every inch his usual irritated self, but he graces Helen with a polite nod. “John, shall we? Lestrade’s finished here. We’ll have paperwork tomorrow.”
It’s just like any other case, but for one thing. Sherlock’s hand has found its way to the small of John’s back.
John grins at Helen, a warm, sympathetic smile. “That’s wonderful,” he says. “Really. Can you move in soon?”
“Tomorrow,” she says, a bit nervously. “I know, it seems quite mad. Can you imagine, moving in with someone you’ve barely known a day? But I just had this feeling, I can’t explain. I do get these feelings. I know you don’t believe me, Mr. Holmes.”
“On the contrary,” Sherlock says, and his deep voice holds a startling note of warmth. And then he slides an arm around John, right there on the steps.
“I think,” John says, and he’s gone a brilliant shade of scarlet, but he finds he doesn’t care at all, “we know exactly what you mean.”
“Thanks,” Helen says, and she grins at them knowingly. “For everything, really. I’d best get upstairs, though. Packing and all.”
“If you can move within the hour, even better,” Sherlock calls after her as John chuckles, leaning into the soft wool of Sherlock’s well-traveled coat.
The cab ride is just like every other cab ride, and it’s... not. Sherlock holds the door open, sits an arm’s length away, sends a text on his mobile. John watches the lights of London flash across the dark window, billboards and tube stops and Picadilly Circus. It would be easy enough to imagine that today had never happened, that a mere hour ago Sherlock hadn’t held him against a wall and snogged him like it was the solution to every crime committed in the past ten years. Absurd, really. Pure fantasy.
And yet John’s life has been distinctly absurd since he’s met Sherlock Holmes.
John feels Sherlock’s eyes on him now, and he turns to see that Sherlock’s been watching him, shadows sliding over his sharp features.
“You all right?” Sherlock says quietly, eyes flicking over John, observing.
“Mmm. Pretty good, actually,” John says, and Sherlock’s mouth tilts upward. “You?”
“Fine,” Sherlock says, and his eyes are hungry, and soft, and heart-stoppingly warm. “Just fine.”
The cab’s pulled up sharply; Baker Street. They’re on automatic, sliding out, Sherlock leaning into the front window, a few crumpled bills and a curt nod of thanks. John’s key in the lock, door shut behind them. Seventeen steps.
“Close the door,” Sherlock says, shrugging off his coat, and this is new. A bit new, and John grins.
“Tea?” John’s latching the kitchen door, the sitting room entry, and the word slips out of his mouth reflexively. He turns to look at Sherlock, who’s unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt and regarding John with an unreadable look: amusement, perhaps.
Or maybe it’s pure affection.
“Sorry,” John says, and suddenly the newness assaults him, a moment of deep fear, of knowing the well-trodden patterns they’re about to leave behind. “Sorry, it’s habit --”
“Tea would be lovely,” Sherlock says, and he’s looking at John, just looking. Waiting.
Knowing John will get there in a minute.
“Sod the tea,” John grins, stepping forward, reaching for Sherlock, and their reality is bent now, altered irrevocably. Sherlock’s lips are warm, urgent, parting as John winds his hands into Sherlock’s curls and feels the past dissipate like the trailing edge of a dream.
The thing about Sherlock is, he never gives John a chance to look back.
The thing about John is, he never needs it.